


And He Never Looks Both Ways Before Crossing The Street

by SilviaKundera



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Character of Color, Future Fic, M/M, Rare Characters, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-01
Updated: 2002-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilviaKundera/pseuds/SilviaKundera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future-fic at a Quidditch match post-Hogwarts. <i>"It might not have been the best idea, admittedly, to shout, "Slytherin in possession -- no, wait, watch it slip out of his slimy fingers!" during the finals, but. Four years of game side announcing and taking the piss and whistles and jeers and being *untouchable*."</i><br/>[Written post Book 4]</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Never Looks Both Ways Before Crossing The Street

It might not have been the best idea, admittedly, to shout, "Slytherin in possession -- no, wait, watch it slip out of his slimy fingers!" during the finals, but. Four years of game side announcing and taking the piss and whistles and jeers and being _untouchable_.

And you know what Muggles say about teaching a dog new tricks.

Though, actually, Lee can't quite remember. But he's -- just off the top of his head, you understand -- suddenly guessing that the dog up and dies, because it slipped, oh yes, and a Slytherin is always a Slytherin, oh **yes** , except _this_ Slytherin now has a thicker neck and thicker hands and three years pro, and Lee was rounding the bleachers but took a wrong turn. A very wrong turn.

The _wrongest_.

"Marcus Flint. Fancy that!" and he's trying for cheerful, until Flint says, "You're fucking _dead_ ," and then Lee is trying for the hole he can spy over Flint's shoulder, to the right.

Inky black gap of under-the-bleachers-and-straight-out-towards-center-field-and- _people_ safety, and he darts towards it. Winces as his bones creak and seem to snap like elastic, a firm hand at his elbow.

"Look, I can tell you've had a very bad day--"

"It's getting better."

"-- so I'll just be going about my business."

"You're scared," Flint remarks, cold and serious and almost like a threat.

Except of _course_ he's scared, back brought flat against warm, rough wood and sweating.

Lee considers that the mark of a well-organized mind, at least in this situation, so he will _be_ scared, thank you very much. He will also breathe remarkably fast, and work very hard at not having heart failure at the promising, young age of twenty-one. He will be calm. Calm like Perificus Totalus.

"And to think the word is that you're _slow_ , and. And I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Marcus agrees conversationally, "Probably not."

"Shouldn't have said that," he nods eagerly, "and shouldn't be here, for I'm _expected_ , you see. George'll be--"

"Waiting," Marcus says, and the word hangs between them and stretches like the Every Expanding Taffy that the twins had stuck in his hair the morning before the sixth year Yule Ball, and he _hates_ the stuff, **hates** it, and this is not Angelina Johnson to impress.

This is a fist slamming upwards into his stomach and pushing air and spit from his mouth, and dampness out around his eyes.

"All, uh, All right," he says (sort of coughs, really), because what else _is_ there besides _no, please, no, stop, stop_ , and that's so bloody **stupid** , as Flint will never stop, ever, if that's what you tell him.

It's about making sounds to prove he can, since he would bet that Flint isn't hearing fuck all about now, face skewed up and pressed against Lee's cheek and _breathing_ on him -- thin and biting smell of steeped too long tea sliding over his face and crawling under his collar. Something old, with a touch of oil and lemon.

Pain tight in his gut, tingling and hot, and Lee shifts around it, shifts into the hand clutching at his waist, the mouth sliding towards his ear. On it. _In_ it, nasty wet slide and then out, drawing a strange sound from someone that could very possibly be him, except goosebumps have been raised all over his skin, and he could swear they've spread along his _mouth_ \-- he can **feel** it, swollen and itching. Too heavy to move.

Beads of sweat on his upper lip, and that itches too. Lee wipes at it -- instinct -- and then Flint has his wrist (too tight, bones grinding into each other) and there's a _lick_ , and it's like he's clean and yet **so** fucking dirty.

He's _filthy_ , and his pulse is juddering, and Flint is hissing, "And next time, yeah?"

"Yeah," Lee gasps, lungs like piping hot coals. "Yeah, uh. What?"

"You keep your mouth," Flint's thick thumb screwing into his throat, "shut."

And he wants to know, _'Would you touch me again?'_ but he doesn't say it, thank _Merlin_ that he doesn't say it, and the thumb is lifted and he gulps around the space it left.

A jaunty smile, "You keep that in mind," and Flint is turning towards the team showers.

And he won't, he really won't, because that's the type of thing that drives a person _insane_ , and. And Lee thinks Quidditch, as a sport, may be terribly overrated. He thinks Enchanted Croquet may be more his speed, come to think of it. He thinks he should be looking into some introductory manuals at this very moment.

He thinks Marcus Flint shouldn't be peering back over his shoulder like that, teeth flashing white and predatory in the sun.


End file.
